


Take my hand and let's start anew

by EarthboundCosmonaut



Series: With you by my side [1]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Aggressive smoking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone's taking a while to adjust, Fluff, Gen, Hilda Being Hilda, Mentioned Faustus Blackwood, Post-part 2, Sisters, Zelda Spellman is Bad at Feelings, Zelda finds it hard to say sorry, but she finds a way in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:08:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22754536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthboundCosmonaut/pseuds/EarthboundCosmonaut
Summary: “They don’t need you to beperfectZelds. They need you to show them that it’s possible to suffer and come out the other side – that bad things happen and it’s not the end.”Zelda stares at her. The clock ticks. Ash falls unchecked from her cigarette onto the ruined rug. “I’m not sure I can do that,” she whispers.After the world nearly ends you can't just go back to the way things were. Sometimes it takes a while to discover how to go forward, though.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman & Zelda Spellman
Series: With you by my side [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1732762
Comments: 17
Kudos: 53





	Take my hand and let's start anew

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a fluffy little one shot, set between parts 2 and 3, that's been languishing in my WIP folder for a while. It was written before part 3 aired, at that point when we all naively imagined that the future would involve trauma being dealt with, sisters supporting each other, and the Church of Lilith becoming a meaningful faith. *sigh*

After a turbulent few months, they’ve finally settled into a routine of sorts. Hilda wouldn’t go far as to say that things are calm – that would surely be tempting fate. Nor could you describe them as normal – not when most of the coven is dead and her nephew is away chasing her sister’s murderous husband half-way round the globe. But the worst of the drama does seem to be behind them.

In many ways, Hilda thinks her lot is the easiest. She might be faced with an extra twelve people to feed, clothe and clean up after, but her role has always been to feed, clothe and clean up. For all it can be frantic at times, she rather enjoys it. There’s pleasure in seeing someone enjoy a meal she has prepared. And at least if she is taking care of everybody, she knows where they are.

It’s far harder for the orphans, poor little lambs. They have lost everything: their families, their homes, their school, their friends. For the first few weeks after the poisoning the house was eerily quiet, given that it was stuffed to the rafters. The youngsters were wide-eyed and silent, unsure of themselves and uncertain how to navigate their new reality. A few times Hilda had opened a cupboard to find a young figure hunched in the dark, looking up at her with red rimmed eyes. It’s hard to find space to grieve when you’re sleeping three or four to a room.

It had been a relief when gradually silence had turned to hushed conversation, and then to laughter, shouting and the occasional yell. She prefers running feet, boisterous pranks and carelessly slammed doors to the stunned silence of shock and grief. Even when one of the little terrors smashes one of the hall windows during an ill-judged practical joke, she doesn’t have the heart to get angry. A little chaos is a small price to pay.

Hilda keeps an eye on the ones that do not participate in the youthful high-jinks and torrid teenage love triangles that become the new normal. Dorcas seems unusually quiet. Hilda supposes that whereas for the other students the Academy had merely been boarding school, for Dorcas, Agatha and Prudence it was the only home they had ever known. She notices that Melvin has a soft spot for Dorcas, so she nudges him in her direction. He’s a gentle, patient boy and despite Dorcas’ vocal irritation at his attention, she can tell that the girl is reassured by it.

Dear little Elspeth is a harder nut to crack. To Hilda’s eye she displays signs of trauma: broken sleep, anxiety, withdrawal. Perhaps it’s not surprising, given the she was tortured and killed by one of the False God’s angels, resurrected by the Herald of Hell, and then poisoned by her High Priest in a massacre that claimed her entire family – all within the space of a week. Hilda makes an effort to keep Elspeth close. She asks her to help when she’s chopping vegetables or changing bed linen, and invites the girl to sit and read in the corner of the kitchen when she finds her hovering aimlessly in the hall.

She notices Elspeth watching Zelda admiringly. She’s not sure whether it’s hero worship or a teenage crush. It doesn’t really matter – what’s important is that there’s someone she trusts after so much turbulence and instability. The trouble is that although Zelda’s around, she’s hardly ever _there_. She’s been taking her self-appointed role as high priestess very seriously. Between tracking down distant relatives of the surviving coven members, trying to restore the Academy building to a serviceable condition and trawling through centuries of historical texts for references to Lilith, Hilda barely sees her except at mealtimes. And recently, Zelda’s only been sporadically attending _those_.

One Thursday afternoon, after Zelda has failed to show up for her third meal in a row, Hilda decides to kill two birds with one stone.

“Elspeth,” she calls, beckoning the girl in from the porch, where she sits staring into space.

Elspeth startles at the sound of her name and hurries into the kitchen, as though expecting to be reprimanded. Hilda points to a tray of soup, tea and fresh scones that she has set out on the table. “Would you mind taking this through to my sister, love? I’ve got my hands full with tonight’s dinner.”

“To – to the High Priestess?” stammers Elspeth.

“Yes petal. She’s in the study. If she says she’s not hungry, remind her that she hasn’t eaten since yesterday lunch time.”

She doesn’t think any more of it until a few minutes later, when the sound of Zelda’s raised voice drifts to her. It’s indistinct at first, but soon crystallises in an angry crescendo. “ _Get out_!”

She runs towards the study and meets Elspeth running in the opposite direction. Hilda stills her with hands on her forearms, takes in the tears streaking the young woman’s face. “It’s all right, love,” she assures her. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Elspeth just shrugs her off and bolts for the front door.

Hilda steps into the study and slams the door shut behind her. “What in Satan’s name has got into you?”

Zelda stands by the desk, lighting a cigarette. The contents of the tray are scattered across the rug before her, pools of soup and tea discolouring the carpet fibers.

“ _Well_?” Hilda demands. “Would you care to tell me what could possibly justify that – _performance_?”

Zelda exhales slowly, smoke curling into her hair. When she speaks her voice is quiet – barely more than a continuation of her out-breath. “She called me Mother Blackwood.”

Hilda frowns. It’s not the most elegant title, but there really is no precedent for a female High Priest in the Satanic Church. “She was trying to be respectful.”

When Zelda offers no response, Hilda continues: “That girl has lost _everything_. I sent her in here because she looks up to you. I wanted her to have a chance to talk to the woman she looks to as her leader. And you reacted like a – like a tyrant! I thought that sort of behaviour died with the Church of Night.”

Still Zelda doesn’t respond, just slumps against the desk and bows her head. It’s really not like Zelda to back away from a fight. Hilda steps towards her, trying to angle herself to get a glimpse of Zelda’s expression, but her face is hidden behind a curtain of hair.

“Zelds?” she prompts, reaching out to touch her arm.

Zelda jerks away – begins pacing the stained rug, careless of the crumbs she is grinding into the pile. “I am nothing like him.” It’s not confident enough to be a statement. More a fearful question.

The tone of Zelda’s voice stops her short. She takes in the shadows under her sister’s eyes and the tremor in her hand, and realises that she has allowed herself to become too distracted by their young guests.

“No, you’re not,” she agrees. Because Zelda has many faults, but she is still twice the man that Faustus Blackwood will ever be. “But these children have been through terrible things and they need you—”

Zelda cuts her off with a vicious jab of her cigarette. “Believe me sister, I am _acutely_ aware that they need me. I’m doing everything I can to try to fix this mess.”

Hilda edges closer and softens her voice. Sometimes it is a necessary risk to speak truth to Zelda. “They don’t need you to be _perfect_ Zelds. They need you to show them that it’s possible to suffer and come out the other side – that bad things happen and it’s not the end.”

Zelda stares at her. The clock ticks. Ash falls unchecked from her cigarette onto the ruined rug. “I’m not sure I can do that,” she whispers.

“You can,” Hilda tells her, encouraged by the fact that Zelda’s response is not a letter-opener to the jugular. “And you can start with a square meal and a proper night’s sleep, because Lilith knows when was the last time you had either. Whatever _this_ is,” she sweeps a dismissive hand towards the sea of manuscripts on Zelda’s desk, “it can wait.”

There’s a flash of fear in Zelda’s eyes and Hilda’s not sure what’s sparked it.

“It’s too early to go to bed, sister.” The words are full of bluster. _Ah yes, there it is_.

“You haven’t slept properly in weeks,” Hilda says. “I’ll bring you some foxglove tea, shall I? Something to bring on a nice, dreamless sleep?”

Zelda’s eyes are glossy. She nods.

“Go and get ready for bed, then,” Hilda tells her. “I won’t be long.”

She’s not sure which of them is more surprised when Zelda obeys without complaint.

* * *

The following morning she’s in the greenhouse with some of the orphans from the Academy, showing them the correct way to cultivate belladonna. It’s a tricksy herb to grow from seed, but the potency of the resulting plant makes the effort worthwhile.

“Don’t even attempt to plant it except under a new moon. Clue’s in the name really, isn’t it? Nightshade.”

“But Sister Hilda,” ventures Agatha, pointing at the glass roof of the conservatory. “It’s daytime.”

Hilda nods, taking the comment seriously even though it’s a rather stupid one. She’s learnt the importance of never making someone feel stupid for asking a question – however stupid the question itself may be. “That’s true, it is daytime. Can anyone venture a guess why we’re doing it now?” Melvin raises his hand coyly. “Go on Melvin,” she encourages him.

“The moon isn’t always in the sky during the night.”

“Quite right,” she tells him with an approving nod, and Melvin blushes furiously. “How would you check the times of moon-rise and moon-set?”

“In the almanac,” Melvin stutters.

“Agatha love, my hands are covered in dirt,” Hilda wriggles her soil-stained fingers for effect. “Why don’t you fetch the almanac from the shelf over there by the door and look up today’s timings?”

Agatha fetches the almanac and, after consulting the index, finds the lunar calendar. “March 23rd, new moon. Moon rise, 6.37am, moon set 3.19 pm.”

“Thank you, dear,” Hilda tells her. “Never underestimate the value of an almanac. There should be one in every witch and warlock home.”

“Sister Hilda,” ventures Elspeth, half raising her hand. “Does it matter that it’s cloudy today?”

What do they teach at the Academy these days, wonders Hilda. Had Faustus eliminated rudimentary lunarmancy from the curriculum? “No dear. You don’t have to be able to see the moon to receive its power - although the power is particularly potent when the skies are clear. But we’ve got plenty today for our purposes.”

She’s suddenly aware of being watched. She glances up to see Zelda leaning against the doorframe, observing her informal lesson. Her lips are quirked in a manner that could mean derision or fondness – although experience has taught her that it’s more likely to be the former than the latter. Hilda can forgive her though, because she looks a thousand times healthier than she had the previous day. The shadows under her eyes have faded to smudges and a trace of colour has crept back into her skin. She’s wearing casual clothing, by Zelda’s standards at least – a thick tweed suit with a crimson roll-neck top beneath.

The students turn to see what’s interrupted their lesson. Backs straighten and breaths are held as they see their High Priestess.

“Forgive me,” Zelda tells them, holding up her hand. “I don’t wish to interrupt what is obviously a much-needed lesson. However, you’ll note from your almanac that the new moon is also an optimum time to harvest certain herbs. I’m going gathering in the forest and I need some assistance. Elspeth, would you join me?”

“Me?” squeaks Elspeth, gripping the workbench.

“Yes,” confirms Zelda with the same stern expression and firm tone of voice that she’d used to make the initial invitation.

Hilda sighs inwardly. Even when Zelda tries to be nice, she goes about it in such a manner that those that don’t know her well can’t always recognise the kindness for what it is. “Go on, love,” she says, giving Elspeth a reassuring smile. “You’ll have a lovely time. Don’t forget to take a scarf though – it’s still nippy outside.”

Elspeth gulps. “Yes, your excellency,” she stammers, casting one last longing look at her classmates. Hilda gives her an encouraging nod and Elspeth crosses the conservatory on unsteady legs.

“We shan’t be back until this afternoon. I’ve packed lunch for us both,” Zelda informs Hilda, before placing a hand on Elspeth’s shoulder and guiding the terrified girl out of the room.

“Right-o, have fun,” Hilda says, beaming at their departing backs. She turns back to her students, who are regarding her with various degrees of concern. “They’ll be fine,” she reassures them cheerfully. “Now, let’s get back to these seeds shall we? These beautiful ladies aren’t going to plant themselves.” She waits expectantly for one of them to laugh at her joke, but none of them do. Standards have definitely been slipping at the Academy if students can’t recognise simple Italian puns, she thinks sadly. “Dorcas love, pass me that germinating tray would you?”

* * *

Elspeth returns at teatime with two baskets packed with herbs and a glowing smile. “Sister Zelda asked me to tell you that she’ll be back by nightfall,” she informs Hilda.

Hilda, who is sitting for what feels like the first time all day glances up at her. “Sister Zelda now, is it?”

Elspeth blushes. “She said I could call her that, when we’re not in a religious setting.”

Hilda gestures at the teapot and fruit cake on the kitchen table. “You’re just in time for tea.”

Elspeth shakes her head. “No thank you. I need to hang these herbs for drying before they start to wilt.”

Hilda transfers her half-eaten cake from her plate to the saucer of her teacup. “I’ll come and give you a hand.”

In truth, hanging the herbs isn’t a big job. Zelda is a fastidious herb harvester and they are already tied into bundles which Elspeth has labelled in copybook-neat handwriting. All that’s required is to hang the bundles from the drying rack in a shady corner of the conservatory. “Did you enjoy yourself?” she asks as they work.

Elspeth nods. “Oh yes,” she says breathlessly. “We walked deep into the forest. Sister Zelda told me about the herbs we gathered and what you can use them for, and the correct cutting techniques. And she told me tales about the Greendale forest, and legends from the Old Country. I learnt so much.”

“So you’re not scared of Sister Zelda any more?” Hilda asks.

“No,” says Elspeth, shaking her head. “How could I be? She’s wonderful.”

The girl’s unabashed hero-worship is adorable. “She has her moments,” Hilda allows.

“She…she said that I can help her catalogue her research on Lilith.”

“Did she now?” That is a turn up for the books. Zelda’s more than happy to palm off domestic tasks such as cooking, but she’s always jealously guarded her research. Hilda’s never even seen where her sister keeps her grimoire, let alone been allowed to look inside it. “Well that’ll be a big job. And are you happy about that?”

“I can’t wait to get started.”

* * *

Nightfall comes, but Zelda doesn’t come with it. By the time she’s fed the children and washed up, it is pitch black outside. Hilda stares anxiously out of the kitchen window, wondering if she ought to go out and look for her. In fact, she wonders whether she oughtn’t to have started looking for Zelda several hours ago. They live in dangerous times – in the last few months they have had to contend with the red angel of death, angelic witch hunters, the Gates of Hell quite literally opening beneath them and Satan himself returning to walk the Earth. Much as she would like to pretend otherwise, even Zelda isn’t invincible.

Hilda’s just summoning her spiders, planning to send them out into the woods looking, when the front door opens.

“Zelda!?” she calls, rushing to the hall. “Zelds, is that you?”

“Who else would it be, sister?” asks Zelda. She stands by the door, peeling off her gloves as casually though she’s just returned from an hour’s stroll, not an entire day’s absence.

“It’s late. I was starting to worry.”

“Well there’s no need,” Zelda tells her calmly. “As you can see, I’m perfectly fine.”

She looks fine. Her cheeks are ruddy from the fresh night air and she smells green and fresh. “Where have you been?” Hilda presses. “Elspeth came home hours ago.”

Zelda examines her for a moment – seems to recognise her concern, because her expression softens. “I needed some time by myself. You were right, things were getting on top of me.”

It’s an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability. Hilda daren’t spook Zelda by making too much of it. “Are you hungry? I’ve saved you some dinner.”

Zelda shakes her head. “I’ll get something later. I have a few things I need to see to first. Thank you for looking after the students today.” She squeezes Hilda’s shoulder briefly as she passes, and Hilda reaches up to pat her fingers.

“You’re welcome.”

* * *

Zelda’s still holed up in the study hours later when Hilda goes up to change for bed. There’s a bouquet of woodland flowers on her bedside table: hellebores, grape hyacinth, cowslip, jonquil and lily of the valley. It’s bound with a satin bow and arranged in a vase that had once belonged to her mother. Hilda had loved the vase as a child – she had been fascinated by its luminescent blue glaze and the smooth dips and curves of its neck. Their mother had given it to Zelda as a dark baptism gift. Zelda had squirrelled it away wherever it is that Zelda keeps her most precious possessions and Hilda hasn’t seen it in centuries. Until today.

She lifts it up, turning it in the light to admire its forgotten-familiar shape. Beneath the perfume of the flowers is another smell – something earthy and pure. The same smell that had clung to Zelda when she had returned from her walk earlier. Hilda replaces the vase on her nightstand and adjusts it this way and that until it is displayed at the best angle. The simplicity of it reminds her of the posies the two of them used to pick as girls – handfuls of flowers selected for their beauty and bundled artlessly together. Is that what Zelda had been remembering as she’d gathered the flowers, Hilda wonders. The days when they’d run barefoot in the woods, hair streaming behind them in the wind. The days before they’d had responsibilities. The days when Zelda had still smiled.

* * *

Hilda taps on the study door. “Only me,” she says, poking her head round.

Zelda glances up from the semicircle of books and papers fanned out before her. “It’s late Hildie, you should be in bed.”

“I’ve brought you a snack.” Despite her earlier promise, a quick survey of the refrigerator had confirmed that Zelda has not fixed herself any dinner. Hilda places a plate of sandwiches and a steaming cup of tea before her. 

Zelda leans back in her chair and pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “Perhaps it _is_ time to take a break.”

Hilda perches on the edge of the desk, pushing the plate towards Zelda as she does so. “Young Elspeth tells me you’ve asked her to help you with your research,” she says.

“She’s very keen to be involved in coven matters. I thought it might be a good outlet for her.” Zelda takes a cautious bite of sandwich, and then another – as though suddenly realising that she is hungry.

“She was very excited when she got back,” Hilda confirms.

Zelda nods. She looks pleased. Hilda knows that sometimes Zelda doesn’t trust her own impressions of others – needs to be reassured. Especially after what happened with Faustus.

“I thought we might all go on a picnic tomorrow,” Zelda tells her. “The spring flowers are in bloom and, from what I observed earlier, the students would benefit from some practical instruction in herbcraft.”

“That sounds lovely. It’ll do them good to burn off some energy. There was a _teensy_ little accidental fire in the pantry today. Nothing to worry about, but I think it would do everyone good to get out of the house for a while.”

Zelda’s eye roll is pleasingly melodramatic. “Mother of Demons, give me strength.”

Hilda gestures towards the uneaten half of Zelda’s sandwich, still languishing on second best china. “I don’t know about Mother of Demons, but you’d better finish that if you want to keep your strength up. And then get some sleep.”

It really must have been some epiphany she had out in the woods, because Zelda simply nods and reaches for the sandwich.

“Hilda, I – would you…Could I have some foxglove tea to take to bed with me?” Her neck is flushed red. It’s obvious how much the request costs her.

“There’s already some brewing in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, sister.” She takes a bite of her sandwich. Chews it determinedly.

Hilda places a hand on her shoulder and leans down to press a gentle kiss on the top of Zelda’s head. This time Zelda doesn’t flinch away. “You’re very welcome, love.”


End file.
